The Cold King (8 page)

The next day was even worse. She cried out when she tried to slip the shoes on and cried actual tears when they were finally on her feet. She limped down to the kitchen with red eyes.

The cook looked up at her sniffling. Spatula in hand he hesitated, then finally asked, “What’s wrong?”

“My shoes,” Calia mumbled.

He winced. “First pair of new shoes?”

She nodded miserably.

Cato handed her the heavy breakfast tray and said, “I’ll send Iago after you today.”

The stairs were torture and she paused to wipe her face before entering the king’s chambers. She shuffled in on stiff legs, trying not to make any move that would cause her feet to rub against the shoes.

The Cold King sighed before looking up. “You lack a core grace most people naturally develop, whether they be farmers or royalty.”

Calia blinked new tears away, cursing her inherent weakness. “I apologize Your Majesty; I am having a hard time adjusting to my new shoes.”

The king cocked his head, the dreadful mask obscuring his feelings and mood as always. “Do they not suit you?”

She carefully shifted from one bloody foot to another. “Perhaps I could have my old shoes…”

He gave a harsh laugh. “Never. Never would I allow you wear those ugly things in my palace. Continue to wear the shoes I gave you, you will get used to them.”

Calia gave a little nod and tottered to her chair. With great relief she settled into it and took a little of the pressure of her abused feet. It took everything she had not to kick the shoes off and away. Not only would it not be appropriate, she wasn’t sure she would be able to get them back on later.

Leaving for her own lunch and returning to serve the king was torture and she did it with her jaw firmly closed against her little moans of pain. Dinner was even harder and the instant she was freed from her duties she limped over to her rooms were Iago was waiting for her.

“There’s water in the tub, you’ll need to soak your feet.”

She nodded gratefully and stumbled past him, pulling of her evil shoes and bloody stockings as she went. The tub was only filled shallowly and steamed with fragrant water. With a sigh she eased her feet in. When the water cooled off she reluctantly dried her feet on a rug and limped back out to Iago.

He looked at her feet and grimaced. “First pair of new shoes?” he asked.

“How does everyone know?”

He gave a low chuckle. “Most of us received our first pair of new shoes here. Not the luxury we were expecting, but your feet are the worst I have seen. Have you asked the king to allow different shoes?”

She sighed and tried to not flinch as he applied ointment to her raw heels. “He wants me to wear
these
shoes.”

Iago nodded. “Appearance is very important to him.”

“But it’s my feet.”

“Yes, and you are his servant. He wants you to be the best representation of him you can be.”

“Well I do not see how I am going to accomplish that limping around on bloody feet.”

Iago sighed and continued bandaging. “I am sure the shoes will wear in soon and your feet will heal. The most important thing is to not let infection set in.”

He instructed her on soaking her feet, applying ointment and how to bandage them at night so her feet would fit in the shoes in the morning. She listened with growing horror and anger. Surely the man would relent when he saw her sheer agony.

But he did not, or he chose to ignore it, and her pain lasted for several days. Help finally came from the most unexpected place.

One morning, while Calia sat miserably in her chair with her terrible stitching in hand, a knock came at the Cold Kings door. Perhaps taking pity on her, he called for the person to enter instead of making her properly answer it.

Marchello stepped in, holding a silver platter with an envelope on it. “For you, my lord,” he said in his deep rumbling voice. He bowed as he presented the platter and held it up for the Cold King to take his letter. The king dismissed him with a wave of his hand and Marchello turned to leave but paused at the door.

“Miss Calia,” he said, causing her head to snap up. “Might I say your shoes are absolutely delightful? That style was always my favorite when I was younger and I’ve waited years for them to be back into vogue. They are so much more lady like than the dreadful flat ankle boots I see on the ladies so recently. I said as much to the dressmaker but she seems to think they will soon be all the rage.”

He added a wink and Calia nearly fell out of her chair but she stilled herself as the Cold King looked her up and down.

“That is all, Marchello. But please send word to Imogene that I require her. Today.”

When the dressmaker arrived later that evening the Cold King cornered her, all the while pointing at his servant’s feet. Calia clutched her needle and thread to her chest, hoping against hope she would finally be rid of the evil shoes.

Imogene waved her into the dressing room and Calia limped over. “No, that will never do,” the Cold King said under his breath as she passed.

The dress maker gave her a little grin then pushed a finger against her lips, silencing Calia’s joy. “These shoes are not to his majesty’s liking. Sit, and remove them.”

She did so with great relish and sighed in relief when Imogene pulled several pairs of soft, flat shoes from her trunk.

Twenty minutes later she left the small room with her tender feet encased in soft leather boots with rounded toes that did not rub her sores. They were nearly like slippers with their flexible soles and she almost danced out of the room.

The king’s face broke into a brilliant smile Calia had never seen before and she jerked to a stop.

“No, no,” he insisted. “There is the grace I was hoping for.” He straightened up from his desk and came around to clasp her shoulders.

She shook at his sudden closeness and forced herself to look up into his face and at the dreadful mask. “You are ready,” he breathed.

“For what?” she asked with a shaking voice.

“Court.”

His words inspired less than courage in her. As king of the region he was judge, jury and executioner of all. And very, very harsh. It was rare for a town’s person to be unable to settle a personal problem without the king’s interference for fear of his harsh judgment.

But other crimes happened and so she found herself shaking at the knees, two steps behind and two steps to the right of him while he sat in his throne and waited for the accused.

Calia held the silver tray just as Marchello had and curiously it held a rose. A real rose.

She had gasped when Abelina had handed it to her but there was no time to ask any questions.

The sweet fragrance wafted up to her nose and she breathed it in deeply as she waited for the far doors on the end of the throne room to open.

Finally they did and the Cold King straightened up. They both observed a young man and woman enter the room. The long walk to the throne seemed especially taxing on her and several times the young man leaned down to whisper in her ear and coax her along.

Calia watched with interest and fear.

Finally they made it to the throne and stood before it, shaking.

The Cold King finally interrupted the uneasy silence. “You are charged with stealing from the palace.”

The woman began to shake harder but the young man put his hand over hers and took a step forward. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And how do you answer?”

Calia could see the anxiety and fear plain on his face, obscuring his identity until it flashed in her head. He was Konstantin, the butcher’s son. She could not place the young woman but she was willowy and beautiful, a perfect match for a wealthy and handsome young man.

“It is true.”

The young woman began to sob but stopped suddenly when the king held his hand up. “And why should I not hang you?”

Calia swallowed hard. What could he have possibly stolen to deserve such a harsh judgment?

“I did it for love,” Konstantin said bravely.

Calia did not need to see the Cold King’s face to know his mouth curled into a cruel smile. “But you still stole.”

“Only a flower!” the girl burst out. “It was just a flower! Surely we can repay you, in some way?”

The king’s gaze did not shift to her. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to grow those flowers?”

Calia looked back and forth in confusion. The only flower of true importance in their village was the rose. And it hadn’t grown there for years. The custom of asking for a woman’s hand and presenting a real rose had been replaced by asking for her hand with a paper one. Calia had never even seen a real one until that day.

Konstantin finally shifted. “I apologize, Your Majesty. But nothing short of the real thing would convince her father to let her go.” He looked up, pleading. With surprise, Calia saw he was begging her as much as he was begging the king.

“And so you stole?” The Cold King was ruthless.

“You do not offer them for sale, even though you have so many,” Konstantin accused.

“Because they are mine!” the king roared.

If not for hours of practicing, Calia would have jumped back as the petitioners did.

The woman edged around her fiancé and knelt gracefully at the Cold King’s throne. “I beg you, my lord, to see our plight. Nothing could convince my father other than a real rose and nothing could convince you to part with one. What else could we do in the face of true love?”

“You always have a choice,” the king said quietly. “Ten years in prison for the theft.”

Konstantin, his fiancé and Calia all gasped.

“Surely you cannot mean it!” the woman cried.

“I do,” the king replied blandly. “It was my flower and he stole it. He should pay the price.”

The woman fell sobbing into Konstantin’s arms and Calia’s heart ached for them. Yes, they had stolen but the judgment would take everything they had hoped for away from them.

“Unless,” the Cold King intoned, “unless my servant can think of a more suitable punishment.”

Calia’s face went red then cold. She was expected to render judgment? Or was he toying with her, toying with them all?

“Your Majesty?” she asked in a small voice.

He leaned back in the chair to look at her. “What would your judgment be?”

From that angle she could see his eyes and saw that though they appeared to be a warm green they were as empty and cold as the rest of him. “Think carefully,” he murmured and she knew her judgment must be fitting or else the wrath would fall on her head.

“First I must see the roses you speak of,” she said, trying to hedge around what was sure to be her impending doom. Visions of the cell she had spent her first days in came unbidden and she followed the king on shaking knees when he stood to lead the way outside.

On the west side of the castle was a private garden and the king pulled a key from his pocket to unlock a gate and usher them in.

Calia’s breath caught in her chest as she drew it all in.

Roses grew everywhere—in the garden, along the walls, up onto the castle itself. They rioted in color and fragrance and she instantly knew how one flower could be so valued. A glance at the two lovers showed how much the flowers meant to them and a glance at the king showed how fiercely protective of his garden he was.

But deep inside, she was angry. Surely the king knew how important the rose was to all the villagers. And clearly he knew that they had access to none while he had an entire garden to himself.

His lips were lined with happiness and joy as he looked upon his creations and Calia hated to interrupt that but did anyway.

“You grew these, Your Majesty?” she asked.

“Every single one,” he responded.

“So they are your property,” she confirmed.

“They are,” he agreed, pleased with his servant.

Calia turned to the young lovers. “And you trespassed and stole to have a rose for proposal?” she asked, willing her voice to be strong.

The young fiancé glared while Konstantin hung his head. “I alone did. For love.”

Calia nodded and hoped she sounded mature and wise. “Then you shall pay a fair price for the flower.”

The king and Konstantin both started and narrowed angry eyes at her. She held her hand up. “I believe you own a rare pocket watch.” She prayed it was he and not some other wealthy young man that had always been flashing the gold piece around.

Konstantin gulped and grabbed at his jacket. “I do.”

“Then it will suffice as payment,” Calia said, making her voice strong.

“But it was my fathers, and his father’s before that!” he protested.

Calia squared her shoulders, praying the young man would see her reasoning. “And it is precious to you, just as the kings flowers are precious to him. You will pay him with your watch or with your time.”

She eyed the fiancé and saw tears of gratitude in her eyes. Konstantin saw it as well and gave a broken hearted sigh before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the watch.

“You are worth more than any possession, even my grandfather’s pocket watch,” Calia heard him whisper to her.

She barely avoided rolling her eyes. A pocket watch, although much loved, was nothing compared to lost time. Ten years in a cell as payment for a flower would have meant an end to their love and dreams of a family. Even if the fiancé stayed true to him she would most likely not conceive at an advanced age.